After breakfast, Aoife joined the others at the storeroom to help load sacks of food and barrels of grain onto Farmer Gowra’s wagon. Her father had come with him. They’d clearly made peace since their fight over the horseshoes.
As soon as she’d greeted her father, the questioning began. “How’s Cormac?”
“Riona says he’s doing well,” her father replied.
“No sign of the evil spirits having gotten in?”
“No.” Her father shook his head. “The wounds are knitting nicely.”
“Is he up and walking? He shouldn’t spend too long in bed; it’ll weaken him.”
“I haven’t seen him up and about.”
Her father raised a hand as Aoife was about to protest.
“Riona knows what she’s doing.”
Aoife’s next question was cut off by Farmer Gowra, “You two going to help or what?”
It was hard work. The sacks were heavy, and even moving them in pairs their arms soon tired. All the time she was working, Aoife couldn’t stop thinking about Cormac. What was he doing now? How long until he’d be able to lift a sack of grain again?
The sun was high overhead when they stopped for a rest. Her father sat down next to her and handed her a cup of water. She stared at it without drinking.
“Riona has been using Brewthorn, hasn’t she?” she asked. “I know it’s not easy to find. I could send some with you.”
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Cormac’s doing fine.” He placed a hand on her arm. “He’ll come to see you as soon as he’s able. Stop worrying.”
By mid-afternoon, the last of the food had been loaded. Her father wiped his brow. “With what Ultán already sent over, that should be enough to keep us through the winter.”
The warehouse at the docks had been one of Ultán’s first tasks. It had been emptied and shared across the county.
Aoife hugged her father tightly before he climbed onto the wagon. “Give Riona these,” she said, pressing a small pouch of herbs into his hand.
“Let me guess,” he said. “For Cormac?”
She smiled. “Riona will know what to do with them.”
Farmer Gowra flicked the reins, and the wagon rattled down the path.
Aoife turned toward the hothouse where Ultán was deep in conversation with the gardeners. As she approached, they were talking animatedly about how to stretch the harvest before winter. Ultán knelt to examine a plant. Hurried footsteps slapped against the flagstones behind her, and she turned to see James jogging across the yard. He smiled at her before poking his head inside the hothouse.
“Ultán, there’s a man asking for you.”
Ultán stood, brushing dirt off his hands on his trousers.
“Says he’s expected,” James continued. “He’s waiting in the servants’ hall.”
Ultán smiled and turned to Aoife. “Come with me.”
They followed James toward the house.
When they entered the servants’ hall, Jory was sitting at the table. He rose at once and shook Ultán’s hand.
“Lord Halverton won’t be managing the estate for the foreseeable future,” Ultán said as they all took seats around the table.
Jory’s expression didn’t change. “I see,” he said.
“For now,” Ultán continued, voice even, “we’ll proceed as though he is.”
